Shawn and Juliet
by astridfire
Summary: Drabbles and oneshots centering around the relationship between Shawn and Jules. A Moments series.
1. Friends are for

I'm taking a page from MusicalLuna1's book (and I hope she doesn't mind) and I'm going to use this space to post short Shules-y fics. Mostly because I'm doing a 100 fic challenge, and I don't want 100 fics cluttering up my profile. I'm freakishly orderly like that… so here they shall be. They're all stand-alones, but they're all Shawn/Juliet heavy. So enjoy.

Title: Friends are for…

Summary: Missing Scene from Scary Sherry from Juliet's POV. Shawn is there for Jules. For 100situations prompt #7: Friend.

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No one has ever tried to kill her before, much less in a situation like this. The candles. Naked Barbie dolls hanging from the ceiling with string. The axe… the shiny, shiny axe that soon might be stained with her own blood.

She hesitates, doesn't really want to hurt Alice, because she's obviously in pain from losing her friend, and doesn't know how to deal with it like a normal person, so Alice gets off a few swings and a monologue.

The adrenaline is pumping, her mind is racing, and that last swing of the axe came too close for comfort, and she doesn't want to end up like Scary Sherry, and Shawn called probably to warn her, and she hopes he's bringing back up… And suddenly she doesn't give a shit about Alice's pain, because she doesn't deserve to die this way, and from somewhere downstairs she thinks she hears Shawn and Gus arguing, and she definitely can't let either of them be involved in trying to neutralize the axe wielding co-ed. So a couple swings later, she finds her in, thumbs Alice in the eye (a dirty move, but effective) and wrestles the axe away.

She's only vaguely aware of the words coming out of her mouth, and Lassiter with his gun on Alice, and then Shawn is in front of her, looking at her like _she's_ the crazy person, and he's gently pulling the axe from her hands… right, Alice is down, she doesn't need it anymore.

She takes deep breaths, Lassiter slaps handcuffs on Alice, and Shawn is there pulling her close, and she realizes that she is shaking and can't quite breathe.

"It's okay, Jules. It's all okay now," he's saying, and brushing his fingers through her hair.

She goes through the motions of the arrest, fills out the paper work, gives her statement, and through it all keeps her face indifferent, puts a lid on her emotions, because she won't, she can't, let anyone see just how affected she is by this. It isn't until later, when she's getting ready to leave the police station, that she realizes that Shawn has been waiting for her.

"I thought you might want a ride home."

"It's been hours. Have you been waiting all this time?"

He shrugs like its no big deal, but it is, and she feels her carefully constructed semblance of control fall around her feet, and then she's crying, and thank God for Shawn, because he knows that she needs to have this breakdown outside, preferably where no one she works with can see her. And when it's dark around them, and her face is buried in his t-shirt, she lets go.

"She tried to kill me! Like we were in a horror movie, and I was the stupid blonde who gets killed in the first five minutes, and everyone is saying, 'Don't go in there Juliet!' but she does anyway… and god, did you see those Barbie dolls? And all the candles? Where does anyone even _get_ that many candles? That must have taken her hours! Hours and hours she spent thinking about how she was going to chop me up with that axe… God, she must have maxxed out her credit card."

His chest shakes under her face, and she realizes that he's trying not to laugh. And it _is_ sort of funny, the whole night is, in a scary, ridiculous way, so she laughs too, and then the laughs are sobs, and Shawn is holding her tight.

"Want to come to the Psych office? Gus and I are having a sleep-over."

"A what?"

"Well, though it pains me to admit it, Gus and I don't deal well with scary… nightmares, you know. We're going to watch Die Hard, and wish we were as cool as Bruce Willis. I call it action movie therapy."

It sounds like the best thing she's heard all day, and she doesn't have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon, so she agrees.

Later, when the horrors of the day are dulled by cartons of Chinese food lying empty on the coffee table, and Shawn and Gus's smart-ass comments about the movie have faded away to tired silence, and she's curled into the couch cushions with a blanket that smells like Shawn's laundry detergent, Juliet reflects that she's very lucky to have befriended these two.

Shawn catches her glancing over at him, and wordlessly offers her the Tupperware of sliced pineapple.

"Thank you," she tells him, and lets her eyes say 'thank you' for more than just the fruit.

He shoots her a rueful half-smile, and replies, "That's what friends are for."

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	2. Playing Games

#38: Touch

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Juliet is leaning against _his_ desk for a change, fighting to keep a smile off her face, and fully enjoying playing Shawn's game. His palms are flat on the desk on either side of her hips, and his lips brush her ear as he says… well, he's saying something. She's not sure what, and frankly doesn't care.

He's been playing this game for months. She'll hand him a case file, and his hand will linger. He'll read over her shoulder, and she can imagine the heat radiating off of him. He'll whisper psychic visions in her ear. Grab her shoulders and claim the spirits made him do it. It's all shockingly subtle, coming from Shawn, and she's found herself wishing lately that he wouldn't be so gentle about it.

So today she found a legitimate reason to come down to the Psych office, leaned her hip against his desk, and hoped she was sending the right signals. Shawn picked them up admirably; hope sparking in his eyes as he trapped her between himself and the desk.

He pulls back, maybe waiting for a response to whatever he was saying in her ear, she'll never know.

She bites her lip, feeling the drag of her teeth over her bottom lip acutely. Shawn watches.

He's so close, crowded into her personal space, but he's not actually touching her. How much can they withstand? Surely not much more. She thinks his thumb just brushed her hip. Yes, definitely a thumb. Her eyes drift shut.

His hands, daring today, creep up her sides, under her suit jacket, and settle around her waist.

"Shawn…" her voice has a definite tremor in it.

"Detective?"

He's bracing himself for another shoot down, but that's not going to happen today. Her hands move to his chest (hard and warm beneath blue cotton), one finger curls around a fastened button, and she tugs.

"Jules?"

"Shut up, Shawn."

Her lips meet his halfway; he's clearly stunned, because it takes him a moment to kiss her back. But then he groans into her mouth, and he's pulling her flush against him. It's so much better than she thought it could be, and he's an amazing kisser. It's the buzzing she gets when he's near, multiplied by about a hundred. The tingles radiate from his lips, and his arm around her waist, and from his hand brushing her cheek. He pulls the chopstick from her hair, and she hears it bounce off the desk and clatter to the floor. Her hair falls out of it's elegant twist, and his fingers sift through the wavy strands.

He breaks away from her mouth to breathe, trailing his lips across her cheek, and she hears him say, "Didn't see this coming."

She's a little breathless when she replies, "No? Some psychic you are."

He laughs in her ear, and then he's trying to kiss her again, but it's not quite working because they're both smiling too widely.

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	3. Choke

#56: Choke

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"Well, if you can't bowl, then…"

"Is that really a deal-breaker?"

"It depends."

Seven gutter balls, and two splits later…

"Lego sponsorship, huh?"

"Oh, come on. I'm using a twenty-five pound ball, I don't have my special Michael Jackson bowling glove, or my lucky bowling shoes…"

Juliet raised an eyebrow and smirked at him.

"Okay, so I lied!"

"You don't just lie, Spencer, you lie big," she laughed.

"I don't do anything half-way, Jules."

She bowled another strike. Shawn pouted.

"You know… I could teach you."

"And hand myself over to the O'Hara taskmaster? I don't think so."

"I'm not that bad."

"Oh, Jules. You are, and I adore that about you, but I think our time would be better spent—"

She pressed herself against his back. "You just need to work on your stance…"

"Okay, quickly changing my opinion on the O'Hara taskmaster."

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	4. Is it a crime if the Chief makes you?

Is it a Crime if the Chief of Police Makes You?

A/N: I got this idea from a challenge on Psychfic dot com. It doesn't completely comply with the challenge, so I guess it doesn't count, but if I were going to write that story, this would be the start of it. I'm not going to, because I don't think I can make it in any way plausible, and really, I only wanted to write this scene.

To set the scene, if you will: For some reason or another, Shawn must pretend to be a legitimate police officer to assist in an investigation. The reason for this fake-a-roo being that someone outside the team is coming into town and does not approve of psychics. And there you have it.

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Shawn did not like the reflection in the mirror. He looked pressed. Starched. Pleated.

He was wearing black, for one thing. Shawn was a creature of color, and he wasn't afraid to show it. But this monochromatic… There was an embroidered patch on his left sleeve. His shoes were shiny. There were funny lettered pins on his collar. The buttons were fastened all the way up to his neck. And worst of all he was sporting a shiny gold badge.

Shawn felt a little short of breath, and pulled the itchy collar away from his neck. They had even made him shave properly. His cheeks were smooth. Too smooth. He didn't like it. Stubble made him look rakish. Dangerous, even.

He sighed miserably. He looked like an idiot.

Deciding that he'd probably been in the bathroom for too long, he yanked open the door before he could chicken out and change back.

Gus was waiting just outside the door. Shawn glared at his best friend and silently dared him to laugh. Gus did. Loudly.

"Oh! Has he finished?" That voice belonged to Chief Vick, and it was _all her fault_ that he looked like this. "Very sharp, Mr. Spencer."

"Thanks." So he sounded a little curt. So what? He was entitled.

"The uniform was a good choice, Detective O'Hara. He looks very professional."

Shawn's eyes slid over to Juliet. Her tongue was trapped between her teeth and she looked a little flushed. Her eyes were eating Shawn up like he was a plate of sugarcoated pineapple slices.

"Hm?" she said. "Oh! Yes. He looks very—professional."

Okay. Maybe he'd just hang on to the uniform.

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	5. Bounce

Title: Bounce

Spoilers: None, but set sometime after Bounty Hunters.

Summary: Shules and an amazing mattress. #96: Bounce

A/N: I wanted to get Shawn and Juliet kicked out a mattress showroom, but it didn't work out that way. Ah well. Maybe another time.

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Detective Juliet O'Hara had always been a good girl. A smart girl. A sensible girl. And as such she knew trouble when she saw it.

Shawn Spencer was trouble with a capital 'T'. Shawn Spencer with his boyish good looks, and his boyish charm, and his boyish... well. He was boyish and attractive all over, and when he was acting like a kid on a prophetic sugar high, Juliet was able to forget that he was Trouble. Of course, then Shawn would remind her that he wasn't a boy at all, and he would drag his eyes over her face (and probably over the rest of her, though she'd never caught him at it) and he would throw her a wink, and a meaningful smirk, and Juliet would remember... Shawn Spencer was Trouble.

Juliet O'Hara, like most good girls, had a weakness for trouble. Especially the kind with a capital 'T'.

So when a murder went down in Timbuktu Mattress Furniture Store, Juliet knew that Shawn would somehow goad her into bed with him.

While his 'vision' did involve a lot of jumping from mattress to mattress (something Juliet suspected he just couldn't resist doing… and it did look like fun) it left him 'psychically exhausted' and splayed out over one of the showroom pieces. He was across the room from the victim, and silent for at least ten minutes when Juliet decided to check on him. It occurred to her as she approached that she was probably playing right into his hands.

"This is really comfortable," he said drowsily.

"I can't believe you're taking a nap in a crime scene."

He shrugged, and sighed deeply. "Seriously, Jules. I have to get this bed. It's so much better than mine."

"Maybe you can get a discount… you know, because of the blood spatter."

He sat up suddenly, looking around in horror. "I've been sleeping in blood? And no one told me?"

Juliet smiled.

"Oh, very funny, Jules." He grabbed her arm, pulling her down onto the mattress.

"Shawn!"

"No, just feel how comfortable it is."

He had not yet released her arm, and Juliet was weak, so she rolled her eyes and lay down beside him.

"Wow," she said, sinking into the mattress that clearly came down from heaven to bless mere mortals with a delicious place to sleep. "This _is_ nice."

"See? Like a cloud… a fluffy cocoon of… something fluffy."

"Not very bouncy though…"

He let out a low laugh, and smiled wickedly at her. "I'll bet I can make it bouncy enough."

"I don't know. I think this is one of those wine glass ones, you know, where the glass doesn't tip over. It's not going to bounce."

Shawn propped himself up on one elbow, looked down at her, and then frowned as he glanced around the showroom. "No," he said to himself, "there's too many people around for that."

"Too many people around for what?"

"Oh, come on, Jules. I know where you're going with that bouncy thing. You're a bad girl, aren't you? Shame on you for hiding it all this time."

"I'll have you know that I'm a good girl, Shawn Spencer."

"Oooh, even better."

Juliet rolled her eyes. "I was just saying that there's nothing wrong with a little bounce."

"Is this one of your deal-breaker things? Bowling, inner-spring mattress, tall, dark, and swarthy… any other hoops I should know about?"

"Swarthy?"

"That is a word, right?"

"It's a word. Who's swarthy?"

"Lou Diamond Phillips."

"Oh. Not all the guys I've dated looked like that."

"Hmm. Did any of them have a certain casual, boy-next-door charm?"

Her lips twitched. "Maybe one."

"Exception to the rule, eh? And how long did you date that one?"

"Six minutes."

His grin was slow, infectious, and she was suddenly very aware of their proximity.

"I liked that date," he said.

She bit her lip on a smile.

"Jules, I really want…" He looked up, and scowled at the forensics people on the other side of the showroom. "It really sucks that there are too many people in here." He climbed off the bed, and held his hand out to her. "I'm having a vision. Come with me."

"You are not," she said, but put her hand in his anyway.

"And how would you know? Do the spirits talk to you? No."

He walked to the back of the store, peered around a door, and said, "Yes, the vibrations are definitely stronger in here."

Shawn put his fingers to his temple, and walked to a corner of the storeroom. "Yes… it's here."

Against her better sense, she followed him. "What's here?"

He moved quickly, reaching out to tug her waist until she was standing close.

"No one," he whispered secretively. "We're alone."

"Shawn…"

"The spirits are telling me this is right. It's time."

"There's a dead man in the next room, and _now_ is the right time?"

"You should always make the best of a bad situation, Jules."

She's pretty sure that making out with Shawn in a dark corner of a storeroom while next door her boss and her boss's boss are looking at a bloody corpse was taking that particular platitude a bit far, but it didn't stop her from leaning into his hand when he cupped her cheek.

"And who's to say that Mr. Lambitri wouldn't be thrilled for us?"

"Anything's possible."

"Oh, definitely."

Her eyelids drifted closed, his breath ghosted across her face, and for one moment his lips faintly touched hers.

A high tinkling beeping broke the moment, and Juliet pulled away, licking her lips to catch that taste of him (something sweet, and mint). She stepped back, and watched annoyance play over Shawn's face as he pulled out his ringing cell phone.

He sighed, and muttered, "Put your damn phone on vibrate, Shawn."

Juliet smirked at him. "I think the spirits are trying to tell us something."

"Ha ha," he said, flipping open his phone. "Gus, you have terrible timing."

"I'm just going to go back…" she said.

"Oh, Jules…" he protested, and hung his head for a moment. "Okay. I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "I promise."

His smile was bright and thankful. "Good. Okay. Gus! What do you need, buddy?"

His voice followed her as she entered the showroom, and she resolved that _she_ would be the one to kiss him later.

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	6. Death on Sale

Death on Sale

Summary: Shawn vs. a bomb.

Minor spoilers for just about everything.

A/N: Kinda angsty, with minor Shawn whumpage, but it has a happy ending. I promise. There's not a lot of Shules, but there's enough that I felt okay with putting it here.

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#90 Bomb

He's watching the last moments of his life tick away, courtesy of a cheap alarm clock that the bastard of a bomb maker had probably gotten at Wal-Mart for $4.95.

Shawn is pretty sure he rates higher than $4.95, and a couple barrels of gasoline, all rigged to explode when those stupid red numbers read 0:00. He's also pretty sure that he's not going to die right away. He's going to get to burn for a bit first. Maybe only about fifteen seconds before he passes out from the pain… his lungs are going to blister… he wishes he'd never watched whatever doctor show or CSI it was that informed him of how painful it was going to get in about… oh, eight minutes now.

Eight minutes.

He shifts his shoulders a bit (as much as he can manage) and tries again to yank an arm free of the duct tape that has him trapped in the cheap lawn chair (and what did that set the guy back? $5.50?). Bastard bomb maker, or BBM as he will hereafter be known, went a little overboard with the duct tape. Half of his forearms are wrapped with tape, anchoring them to the back legs of the chair, his ankles to the front legs, and his entire torso is wrapped mummy style. It's a bit excessive. (Duct tape costs what? $2.99 a roll?)

He feels a tiny shift in his right arm, which is only evidenced by the fact that he just ripped a couple hairs out of it.

"Ow."

That kind of pain is encouraging, so he strains harder. A few more twinges in his arm indicate that he may be getting somewhere. He throws his shoulder as hard as he can forward, and screams. That pain didn't come from his arm… that was a muscle in his back protesting. Well, screw that. He does it again and his arm shifts against the metal. Yes! Progress.

He wishes it were hotter in here. Sweat might make the tape loosen, right? There's a fine sheen of it on his forehead, but his forehead isn't wrapped with tape, so that's not helping, and dude, how pissed would he be if he had to rip his _hair_ free of duct tape?

His movements are becoming more desperate, and there's a little voice in his head saying, "Please, oh please, oh please," that's making the more rational part of his mind want to go a little crazy, but that stupid clock from Wal-Mart just clicked down to seven minutes, so crazy and desperate are probably called for.

He's got to get out of here. It doesn't end this way. It can't. He has a case to wrap up (the big reveal was going to be so freaking awesome!), and he and Gus were supposed to go see the Dodgers this weekend, and he hasn't told his Dad about the sweet new pipes he's putting on his motorcycle, and he hasn't kissed Jules yet, and he definitely needs to annoy Lassie at least one more time, and he needs to tell Chief Vick how great she is…

God, do they even know he's gone? He should have been at the police department two hours ago… Have they found the mess he left behind in the Psych office? He remembers papers flying off Gus's desk, and knocking the lamp off his own, and he probably left some blood behind when he got his head slammed against the edge of the coffee table. If he gets out of this, he's really going to enjoy sticking it to the jerk who left him here.

The upper part of his forearm can wiggle against the chair now, but his wrist is still stuck. He shifts and strains and struggles against the chair, and he's aware that the noises coming from the back of his throat make him sound like a sissy little girl, but he really doesn't care. There's a weird sort of squelching feeling, and his wrist is fully wiggle-able too.

Five minutes to live… where did six go?

He wrenches his arm free, screaming at the pain. He's never had a high threshold for it, and even with how freaked out he is, it still hurts when the tape peels away from his skin and the inside of his wrist drags against the rough metal edge of the chair. But now he has his arm back, and maybe he'll be getting out of here alive.

He leans forward as far as the tape wrapping his torso will allow, and can only see the toes of his sneakers. But he doesn't need to see that far, just needs to be able to feel for the end of the tape. His fingers find the sticky uneven edge, and he pulls. There's clearly a reason why duct tape can be used to fix just about everything, because it's not peeling away from itself very easily. He works about an inch free, and then… then it's easy. It takes thirty precious seconds to free his right foot, and slightly longer for the left because his arm just doesn't want to reach that far.

Three minutes.

He stands, sort of, hunching really, with one arm and his torso still attached to the stupid chair, and hobbles quickly to the door. It's locked, naturally, from the outside, and there's nothing at all that he can use to pick the lock with. He pats his pockets (the two that he can reach anyway) and finds nothing. The door is steel, the walls of the room concrete, windowless, and a single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling.

He's sort of screwed… and after all that wiggling.

Shawn throws himself at the door, wailing, "Let me out of here!" and beating his fist against it. The noise echoes around the empty room, but there's no answering call from outside. He knows he's losing it, but the little desperate voice has taken over, and he's screaming for help. "God, help me! Somebody help me!"

He's never been good with fear, but anger is something he's friendly with, and he knows trying to bash the side of the lawn chair into the door when he's still attached to it isn't really going to help anything, and it will probably only make things worse, but he's mid-motion when he thinks this is probably a bad idea.

The right legs hit the door with a clang, and send a wave of agony through his back and left shoulder. Muscles and tendons, and God knows what else, aren't meant to be shoved like that. He bounces off the door, crashing to the floor in a heap of chair, tape, and his own pissed off limbs.

He catches a look at the clock. Two minutes.

"Damn it."

He's pretty sure he's going to cry. He takes a deep breath that's a lot thicker and shakier than he's used to, and tries to get himself to a point where he can stand again, but with one hand and a back that's just not in the mood to attempt that sort of complicated twist, it takes awhile.

When he's up, he tries the door handle again, just in case some miracle occurred while he was crumpled on the floor. No such luck.

Shawn squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forehead against the door. He's going to die.

He's not ready. His dad, Gus, Jules… so many things he needs to do and say before he'd be close to ready.

Tell his dad that despite everything, he's glad that Henry Spencer was his father. He's grateful for that, even.

Tell Gus that he couldn't have asked for a better best friend, and that he's sorry for all the selfish shit he's pulled on him over the years.

Tell Juliet that he loves her.

He turns from the door and sits down, facing the confabulation of wires, barrels, and that damned alarm clock that spell the end for Shawn Spencer.

He wipes the tears away from his eyes and sniffs. He's not going to go out sobbing. Hell no. The clock still reads two minutes.

He finds the edge of the tape covering his chest, and starts to idly pull it away, thinking about water skiing in Colorado, All Star baseball games, teaching those cute Thai girls choice English phrases, rafting in Costa Rica, sailing off Newport Beach, sneaking around Graceland at night, Mardi Gras, cruise ships, surfing…

One minute.

Civil War reenactments, comic book characters, spelling bees, legal consulting, dinosaurs, American Duos, astrological forecasts, urban legends, poker tournaments, speed dating, bounty hunting…

Maybe he has lived a full life. His chest is half free, but it doesn't really matter.

Thirty-six, thirty-five…

He shuts his eyes and counts.

At ten to the end, he screws his face up and digs his chin into his shoulder. At five his free arm is crossed over his body, back of his hand squishing his nose.

He wonders how much this is going to hurt.

Three, two… there's a click.

Shawn sucks in a breath, and braces himself.

There's a moment where everything seems to go white behind his eyelids, and the silence is profound.

Something is… wrong. He starts counting forwards. One, two, three, four… Nothing's happening.

He opens his eyes, wondering if he just counted down too fast. The cheap ass Wal-Mart clock reads 0:00. He drops his hand, and cocks his head at the strange sight before him.

Is it possible? Gus had always joked that Shawn led a charmed life, but this… was… off the charts.

A grin starts to pull at the corners of his mouth. Was the bomb a _dud_?

Laughter bubbles up his throat. "No _freaking_ way."

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	7. The Future and Iris

Title: The Future and Iris

Summary: A brief glimpse of the future. #76 Baby.

A/N: I have a deep abhorrence for baby stories, so I thought I'd just get this one out of the way.

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It's Friday night, and Juliet somehow got roped into baby-sitting Chief Vick's daughter, so Shawn is headed over there with a slasher flick (and a present for Iris) to relive his high school days with his gorgeous girlfriend.

He'd liked that in high school… sneaking over to whatever house his current girlfriend was baby-sitting at, sometime after the brats were sure to be in bed, and making out on the couch until they heard the sound of a garage door opening, and then it was a mad dash to the back door so she wouldn't get in trouble for having a boy over.

Juliet is wearing casual clothes, with her hair tied up, and a bright smile when she answers the door.

"Hey! You're early."

"Yeah, I just—"

She opens the door the rest of the way, revealing tiny Iris in pigtails perched on Juliet's hip. The picture they present makes Shawn's stomach drop. The two of them look so alike, with their blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and happy to see him smiles. It makes him think things… things that he's sure shouldn't be considered at this stage of their relationship. "Oh, wow."

Iris holds out her hand, and makes a gurgling baby sound that Shawn decides means, "Hello."

"She recognizes you."

He recovers from the feeling that he's seeing into his own future, kisses Juliet, and ruffles Iris's hair.

"Course she does. I'm her Uncle Shawn, and the guy who's going to introduce her to the wonders of pineapple."

Juliet laughs and shakes her head. "I think she's a little young for pineapple. No teeth yet."

"That's what you think," he says, holding out a small jar for Iris to inspect. "Pineapple baby food! It's blended with pears, so it's not pure, but… it was the best I could do." Iris slaps her pudgy palm against the jar, and makes another one of those indecipherable baby noises.

Juliet's expression says he just did a good thing… probably something that would get him lucky… Later though… definitely not on the Chief's couch.

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	8. Jitters

Title: Jitters

Warnings: Spoilers for Rob a Bye Baby.

Summary: Shawn, Juliet, a bridal expo, murder, and scary, scary questions.

A/N: I'm a little iffy about this one… I like it, but I'm not sure if it quite works.

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#82 Afraid

There's a dead model in a Vera Wang wedding gown at the Santa Barbara Bridal Expo. The pale fabric is stained with bright red blood, but it's the sight of the intricate beading, lace insets, and long folds of creamy silk that make Juliet's stomach turn.

Shawn is nearby, talking to one of the other models, but she's pretty sure that he's deviated from questions about the murder, because the model is saying something about the differences between silk and satin in a wedding gown, and Shawn is replying that he'd always imagined a summer wedding, outdoor ceremony, and didn't the model think that Juliet would look particularly lovely in a creamy pink?

She takes deep measured breaths, and tells herself she will not freak out.

He's paying her back for that afternoon they spent pretending to be married, when she jabbered endlessly on about what their imaginary wedding had been like. It was funny then, to watch his eyes go blank in boredom and incredulous annoyance, and he had deserved it for 'proposing' to her at a crowded café, but she's not laughing now.

He's done with the model, and is chatting with a man at a jewelry booth. He turns around to point at Juliet, and the silver wedding bands that the man was showing Shawn are replaced with gold ones. A strangled noise escapes from her throat, and she looks around to make sure no one else is aware of what Shawn is up to. They're not. This show is solely for her benefit… or detriment.

If Gus was here, the joke wouldn't have gone on for this long, and she might be able to breathe right now.

She glares at Shawn, and he sends her back a tiny, smug smile.

Jerk.

She pulls her attention back to the witness Lassiter is questioning, and makes a note about the dead model's ex-boyfriend. Suspect number one, though Juliet is pretty sure one of the other models would wind up being the guilty party.

"I know who did it."

His breath is warm in her ear and smells of chocolate. He must have scoped out the dessert section. She'd seen the chocolate fountain, and she was pretty sure they'd had slices of pineapple available for dipping.

She angles herself away from him, and raises an eyebrow to let him know she's pissed about his earlier jokes. "Already? When did you have the time?"

"Somewhere between picking out the flowers for your bouquet, and finding a DJ who plays monster rock ballads."

She hates her lips for finding that funny.

"All right. Who did it?"

"The red haired stick figure named Mary-Anne. She's the one talking to McNabb. She's got scratches on her wrist."

"She's wearing gloves." They're the opera length kind that Juliet has always liked. "How do you know?"

"Psychic, Jules." He wraps his hands around her shoulders and says, "Now, get Lassie to bring her in for questioning. _We_ need to look at honeymoon packages."

She rolls her eyes (thinking, _maybe Italy_), and pulls away to tell Lassiter what Shawn has found. Mary-Anne confesses before her partner has even read her her rights.

"Wow, Shawn. That was good."

"It's a two bird, one stone sort of day." He turns his back on the sobbing murderess, and locks eyes with Juliet. "Now, in all seriousness, are you a solitaire girl? Or maybe something with lots of baby diamonds on the sides?" He takes her left hand in his and considers it, like he's imagining what would look best. It makes her breath catch, and her stomach clench.

"Okay, stop it," she says, snatching her hand away. "You're freaking me out."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly still looking for an answer to his ridiculous question.

"Fine," she snaps. "Something simple. Gold."

His eyes hold hers for a beat, and she sees something go soft in them.

"Wow. You really are freaked out."

She gestures helplessly with her hands, indicating the frenzy that surrounds them. "It's just… it's all so…"

"Much. It's too much."

"Yes." Thank God she doesn't have to explain herself. Sometimes she loves the whole psychic thing.

He nods sagely, as if her statement had been something profound. "Eloping it is. Vegas? _Elvis_?"

"Shawn," she says, three parts exasperated, amused, and terrified.

She's never quite sure where she stands with him, or what he wants: if he's just flirting, if he just wants to get her in bed, if he really wants to _genuinely_ be with her. She's not even sure what she wants from him most days: if she wants to push him away, or pull him closer. The safe thing to do has been to keep him at arms length, but he's sneaky, and gets past most of those invisible lines that must-not-be-crossed with ease. His comments today have been made in jest, but there are serious questions in them, and she just doesn't know how to answer.

He smiles at her, but there's something different in it. Something she can't read. He takes her left hand again, and his thumb brushes a thoughtful line down her ring finger. "Someday, Jules, maybe it won't be too much."

He leaves with a sad sort of grin. There's a _longing_ in his expression that she's sure can't be manufactured. She stands there for a moment, watching him go, wringing her hands together, one thumb following the same path that his had.

She wonders exactly what he was referring to: weddings, marriage, him, them, or all of it in one big scary package?

She shakes herself, and makes a beeline for the chocolate fountain, and if she happens to eat a few slices of that pineapple, then so be it.

-----


	9. Saturday Mornings

A short series of important moments for Shawn and Juliet, which occur on Saturday morning… probably over the course of a couple years. (I hope you like it DeanParker.)

-----

It's Saturday morning, and she hasn't yet been to sleep. Shawn caught the bad guy not long ago, which is a good thing, she reasons, but now she has to complete all the paperwork that comes with an arrest. She just wants to take a hot shower and curl up under the covers for a few hours. Shawn and Gus are walking up the stairs to the station with her. They haven't slept either, and it's even affecting Shawn. The bounce has left his step, and he's trudging along beside her.

He wraps a friendly arm around her shoulders, and their steps slow on the stairs. "You okay, Jules?" She leans into him. He's warm and spells faintly of ocean. Or maybe that's the air.

"Just tired," she sighs, and rests her head on his shoulder for a moment. She's grown comfortable with him. His arm feels right around her, her head fits just so on his shoulder, but it's only her own weariness that's allowing him to be this close. She thinks weariness is a good thing in this case.

"I hear that," Gus says.

"You guys can go home," she says, turning to face both of them. Shawn's arm falls away. "Its just paperwork left."

"Jules… she shot at you," Shawn says.

"Yeah, but she missed by about five feet. And?"

Shawn and Gus exchange a confused look. "And we thought you'd need… something," Shawn says.

She laughs. She can't help it. But she gives them each a hug. "You guys are great. Go home. Sleep." Shawn won't let go. He keeps his hands around her shoulders.

"Are you sure? I mean, something like that I'd want… breakfast." His grin is carrying a touch of anxiety. She gets it all of a sudden. He was worried for her, and now he doesn't want to let her out of his sight. The 'girl power' part of her should be irritated, but she just thinks it's sweet. Gus is being a good wingman and making himself scarce. She sees him from the corner of her eye retreating down the station steps.

"I'm fine," she says quietly. His mouth takes on an unhappy slant, and he runs a protective hand over her hair. She lets him hold her tighter, and her cheek rests against his chest. He must have been really freaked out by today. He must really—She thinks she feels him press a kiss to her hair. She shuts her eyes and sighs.

"Okay," he says finally. "I'll go home."

He holds her hand as he backs down the stairs. "Hey," she says, really hating that the sparkle isn't in his eyes. "I'll come by later? Maybe this afternoon?"

Shawn smiles. It's not quite up to par, but it's better than before. "Good," he says, nodding. "Yeah. That's good."

She suddenly wants to kiss him. Really kiss him. But instead she watches him walk to Gus's car, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

-----

He seduced her on Friday night, and she wakes up Saturday morning wrapped up in sheets that smell like him. He's lying beside her with his arm bent up over his head and the sheet pooled low on his waist. She has _no idea_ how she managed to hold off for as long as she did. He wakes with a funny moan, twisting his back so it pops all along his spine. He frowns at the sunlight pressing at his eyelids, and the expression makes her smile.

He's sexy as hell.

Shawn opens his eyes, and when they light on her… "Yes," he says, voice raspy and triumphant. "It wasn't a dream."

"Definitely not." He grins and reaches out to pull her into his arms. She can't resist asking, "You've had dreams like that about me?"

He's kissing her neck. "Oh, Jules… to admit the truth would only embarrass me."

"I've had dreams like that about you."

He looks far too smug. "Really?"

"Mmm hm."

"I think you should explain them to me. In detail."

"How about I show you instead?"

He rolls her onto her back and growls. She loves that sound.

Later, when they're spent and dozing lightly, he says, "This is good, right? You and me?"

She shakes her head, and replies, "No. This is great."

-----

Juliet loves Saturday mornings. Saturday morning means that she wakes up next to Shawn. Some Saturday's she'll wake up to breakfast in bed (cereal and coffee), sometimes she wakes to kisses on her skin and they make love, and some days they both decide to be lazy and lie there watching TV until Shawn becomes restless.

On this Saturday morning, they're lying together in her bed, watching Spongebob Squarepants and having a semi-awake, semi-philosophical conversation.

"You know," he says, and his chest rumbles under her cheek, "I feel sorry for Squidward."

"He's supposed to be the bad guy, isn't he?"

"Plankton is the bad guy, Jules. He's always trying to steal the secret recipe to the Krabby Patty. You know this."

"I apologize," she says on a yawn.

"You're forgiven. Squidward's a good guy… deep down. He's just living in this constant miasma of disappointment and dashed dreams. It's sad."

"Miasma?"

"Gus has word-a-day calendar."

"Ah."

"I mean look at him… all he ever wanted was to become a famous clarinet-ist… clarinet-er?"

Juliet shrugged.

"Clarinet player," he settles on. "And instead he's been working for a tyrant in a fast food restaurant for years."

He's distracted for a moment by Spongebob's latest crisis. She knows he'll come back to his point eventually, so she occupies herself with tracing patterns on his chest with her fingertip.

"That in itself is probably enough to… well, make him bitter, but on top of that he's got Spongebob to deal with. Spongebob is always there to ruin whatever plot poor old Squid has to turn his life around, and Spongebob doesn't even realize he's doing it. He's this constant annoyance. So cheerful all the damn time, and always getting one up on him without even really trying. Good stuff just happens to him for no reason at all… No wonder Squidward is so cranky."

Juliet grins into his chest. Squidward and Spongebob have an awful lot in common with two men she knows… The tentacled one she'll see at work on Monday, and the one who lives in a pineapple currently has his arm wrapped around her. She wonders if Shawn sees the similarities.

"Are you laughing?" he asks.

She lets the giggles go. "Maybe."

"You think my analysis of Spongebob Squarepants is too out there? I'll have you know that I'm pretty sure I've seen every episode."

"I don't doubt that."

He squeezes her in his arms, and laughs suddenly at a really stupid joke the pink starfish just made. She likes the way his whole body shakes against hers.

The cartoon goes to commercial, and she makes a grab for the remote.

"Hey now," he says, snatching it away. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to get between a man and his remote?"

"It's my remote," she retorts, making him smirk. They play a quick game of keep away, until Juliet wins. He's ticklish, and bare-chested as he is, an easy target. She hits the mute button, tosses the remote away, and leisurely drapes herself over his body.

He wraps his arms around her and growls playfully. "I'll have to let you win more often."

"Let me nothing," she says, and kisses him. "Shawn?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

It's the first time she's said it. His smile is a full one hundred-watts; it makes his eyes look greener, and seems to brighten the whole room. It's the smile that always makes her knees melt. It's a good thing she's lying down. He pulls her in for a breath-stealing kiss. "I love _you_," he says.

-----

Juliet loves Saturday mornings. She likes waking up slowly to the sound of cartoons or Sports Center (depending on whether SpongeBob is on or not). She likes listening to him laugh quietly, or bemoan the current state of his fantasy teams. Either way, she usually wakes up smiling.

On this Saturday morning, she wakes up to silence.

She cracks one eye warily open. He's lying on his stomach, chin propped up on both fists, and he's just looking at her.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Was I drooling?"

He presses his lips together on a smile. She was.

"It was adorable."

She would roll her eyes, but it's too early for that. So she sighs instead and burrows deeper under the covers.

"Jules?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Well, can you open your eyes? It's kind of important."

She's sure that it isn't, but she opens up and pulls the blanket away from her face.

"What is it?"

He's chewing on his lip, and then slowly he reaches a hand underneath his own pillow and pulls something…

Oh, God.

He flips the lid of the tiny box open, takes a quick look at what's inside, and then sets it gently down in her line of vision.

It's beautiful.

"Jules…" She's never heard his voice tremble like that. He swallows. "Will you marry me?"

She's kissing him before she even realizes she's moved.

She's breathing, "Yes, yes, yes," against his lips, and he's grinning.

-----


	10. Cabbage

Title: Cabbage

Rating: T or M for swearing

Pairing: Shawn/Juliet

Genre: Angsty in that emo way.

Spoilers: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Summary: Missing scenes for said episode. Starts right after, "I smell love."

A/N: This may seem a little OOC. I don't know. I don't think of Shawn as having a hell of a lot of depth (and I love him that way, don't get me wrong), and this may test the boundaries of that introspectiveness that he may or may not possess. There's a lot going on in his face during this episode, but I tried not to take it too far. I hope you like it.

This is all from Shawn's POV. His inner dialogue is in italics, but it spills out sometimes into the regular type (is there a term for that?)

-----

"You and you are a one hundred percent perfect match from your personality questionnaires!" The speed-dating lady looked far more thrilled than she ought to have been. Inside, Shawn was pumping his fist, mentally preparing how best to use this new information.

"I smell love."

And just like that, the flirty, suggestive comments fled. There was ice in his veins, and heat in his cheeks, and he was glad that the lighting in the bar was dim. All he could do was laugh, forced and entirely without mirth, but she joined in. He had absolutely no idea what to say, but thankfully (probably because she was just as fucking weirded out as he was) Juliet gave him an out.

He headed for the restrooms, but changed course halfway there. He pushed open the front door of the restaurant, and walked down the block. He couldn't breathe. "Oh, God. Is this what a panic attack feels like?"

Shawn leaned against a building, and tipped his head back to stare up at a street light. He squinted, and it haloed prettily against the black sky, pulsing in time with the raging beat in his chest.

Love, love, love... The word ran through his head, round and round in circles, and all he could say was, "Shit."

He covered his mouth with his fingers. "Shit," he repeated.

He liked Juliet. She was becoming a friend. And he really wanted to sleep with her. Generally he never got past the wanting to sleep with a girl part, so just getting to the point where he enjoyed her company was enough of an accomplishment.

_Stupid personality quizzes_, he thought. _How did we score that way?_

Had she cheated?

No. Juliet wouldn't do something like that. If she had, she would have put more of an effort into flirting during their six minutes together. Cheating is something he would do. But he hadn't.

The test had been a short twenty-five questions. Some serious, some on the stupid side, but they were all worded in an amusing way, so he had answered honestly. Mostly on the off chance that he would match up with some hot girl, and yeah, he'd hoped for Juliet to be that match... but that hope had been mostly for flirting ammunition. But now? One hundred percent, and the word 'love' had been thrown into the mix, and he sure as hell wasn't going to pull _that_ out of his arsenal.

_Why did the speed-dating lady have to use the word 'love'? _Shawn groaned, and beat his head against the brick wall.

Love was responsibility. Love was a permanent tie. Love was asking for trouble.

Shawn didn't like to think of himself as damaged, but his parent's divorce _had_ put a damper on the whole marriage with kids thing. He'd grown up with loud arguments followed by cool silences, and that wasn't something he wanted for himself. He'd also gotten to see first hand what divorce had done to his mother. He never wanted to experience that kind of pain. And because of all that, he hadn't had a relationship that lasted longer than a couple months since his junior year of high school. Rebecca Hamilton, drama geek. Over _ten_ years ago. "Wow," he said aloud. "I am damaged."

He has to figure this out. He has to get back to that fun, flirty territory, because he knew that every time he saw Juliet from now on he'd be thinking, "I smell love." It smelled like cabbage.

He paced to the curb and back again. _This is easy_, he thought. _This is just another puzzle. Collect all the pieces and you'll have an answer_.

"Shawn!"

Gus was down the street at the restaurant's entrance. Juliet and Lassiter filtered out to join him. "Crap," Shawn muttered.

"Gus!" Shawn jogged towards them. _Everything is fine_.

"Where did you go?" Gus had an annoyed look on his face that told Shawn he was worried.

Shawn shrugged, ignoring Juliet and Lassie's curious looks. "I heard something… turned out to be a stray cat."

"We thought, maybe—" started Juliet.

"That I'd been roofied, and you'd find me naked in a field tomorrow morning?" Shawn quipped. Before the 'l' word he would have thrown in something suggestive, but the smell of cabbage was stronger in front of the restaurant, and he was trying not to choke on it.

-----

It was just his luck that Mrs. McConnell in 2B had made sauerkraut. The smell filled up his apartment, and even with all the windows open the odor lingered.

Shawn lay flat on his back in his bed, staring at the lines made on the ceiling from the blinds and the streetlights below. There was a faint red, then green, then yellow glow from the stoplight. He counted the seconds the light stayed red.

The puzzle began with analyzing himself. Not something he liked to do, but here goes. Okay, so he can technically be called commitment-phobic. The idea of attaching himself to one person for the rest of his life (_there's a brick on my chest_) was scary.

"I can't do this," he muttered, breathing through his mouth to block the smell.

Puzzle piece two: Juliet.

Pros: Hot (_seriously hot_), blonde (_never been picky in that department, but her hair… yeah, my fingers already know they like it_), he likes her perfume (_something with lilacs_), her smile is adorable, she would understand his crazy work hours (_something Mom and Dad argued about constantly_) and he gets hers, she gets his sense of humor (_always important_), she plays his word games (_and wins!_), and she calls him on his shit (_and it's impressive that she can be ahead of my own train of thought sometimes… oh no… am I becoming _predictable). He could go on forever about her good points (_and stray into X-rated territory while doing it_).

Cons: she's a stickler for the rules (_but that's part of the challenge_), she's shown next to no interest in him romantically (_daunting, but not insurmountable… romantically? _Really), she doesn't know that he's lying about the whole psychic thing (_I can already imagine her yelling at me… something she'd probably do anyway, but if we were involved? Yikes_), and she's bossy.

_Bossy? That's all you've got, Spencer?_

Puzzle piece three: trial run. He shut his eyes on the light show playing on his ceiling, and ran through a scenario.

_They have a house. Maybe they're married. She's late coming home from work, and he's lying in bed watching ESPN while waiting up for her. She kicks off her shoes, and lies next to him with her head on his shoulder._

_He wonders if he's the, "How was your day, honey?" type. _

_But he would mute the TV, and wrap his arms around her, and listen… Though it's likely that they've seen each other at some point during the day. They work the same cases most of the time… so maybe they would have nothing to talk about. But no, he always has something to say, something to fill up the silence…_

_Imaginary Juliet takes over. (She's even bossy here.) "I'm starving."_

"_There's pizza in the fridge."_

_She wrinkles her nose. Adorable. "It's a week old."_

"_Mmm… crusty, dried out pepperoni, pineapple, and mold pizza. It's calling your name."_

"_Ech," she says. "I'll have to make something."_

_He knows she's tired. "I can make you some mac and cheese. You look like you need a long, hot soak in the tub…"_

_She hums a response._

_He kisses her nose. "I could even join you…"_

_Her hum increases in pitch, and she leans up to kiss his mouth. "Okay. Bring in the mac and cheese."_

"_Kinky, Jules."_

_She laughs against his shoulder, and then she's up and he's watching her undress._

He stopped himself there, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. His 'domestic' scenario was going the way his normal Juliet-related fantasies went, but the brick on his chest didn't feel as heavy.

_Yeah, okay_, Shawn thought. _Not so bad. Do-able in fantasy land at least_.

A fresh breeze blew in through the open window, carrying the clean scent of the ocean. He breathed deep.

-----

The bowling alley did not smell like cabbage, but it should have. (Stinky shoes, wax, French fries, and beer.)

Shawn decided then and there that his observational skills were definitely a curse. He caught a glimpse of blonde and bright red, and his stomach tightened. Nervous? That was new.

And even more alarming was jealousy. (A squeeze at the back of his neck, and ice instantly freezing his spine.)

He was _not_ a jealous guy.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was making a complete ass of himself.

Bowling at a high level? Fifteen to twenty hours of practice a week? Lego sponsorship? He was even shocking himself with the lies that were falling from his mouth. She smiled though (_seeing right through me_). And then there was Kyle, and the word 'rejection' when his arm went around her shoulders, and Shawn was fully aware that he was ruining Juliet's date, but he just couldn't stop himself. There was a part of him (a small, small part) that was bitch-slapping the asshole who had taken control of his tongue.

Tight-tucks? What the _fuck_?

He walked away from Juliet and her moron of a date (asshole and bitch-slapper both agreed on that), kicking himself. He hasn't embarrassed himself like that in front of a girl since high school.

Bitch-slapper was begging for him to get a beer. Or eight.

Gus stopped him, and that was when Shawn knew that this thing with Juliet was important, life changing in magnitude, because he usually told Gus _everything_, and he didn't breathe a word about it.

-----

A few hours after Mr. Asshole had been shoved back into a box with Jealousy, he was having a pretty good night. He'd gotten the last word in a mini-argument with his dad (though he's still freaked by his dad's new beauty routine), and he'd just wrapped up a case. That was always a nice feeling. He was sitting with a blonde girl (_with utterly nothing upstairs_), and beginning to regret the move, when Jules snuck up on him.

She was _not_ supposed to be there. Had she heard his speech? He'd gone on about love and perfect matches. Mr. Bitch-slap has become Mr. Embarrassed. Is she going to yell at him for ruining her date? She looked like she was having fun before he stuck his nose in…

She didn't yell. She smiled, and apologized for getting rid of his 'date.' That made him feel vaguely guilty, so he asked her about her own. Mr. Masochistic was making a cameo.

The thought of a goodnight kiss and butterflies made his own stomach roil, but she wasn't with Tight-tuck now. (_I'm in so deep. Fuck._)

Why wasn't he really psychic? He couldn't read her at all. Bowling is a deal-breaker? (_Is she serious?_) Did she believe him earlier? (_No._)

"I don't take any stock in those profile matching thingys…"

He laughed and tried on a grin, but it wouldn't stick. _Of course, I was just fooling around. Of course, I copied. Of course. And, for fuck's sake, I'm stuttering._

"I don't want there to be any weirdness between us…"

He heard her loud and clear. "Let's just be friends."

It was only as she was walking away that he figured out she wasn't feeling as cool as she'd been acting. "I'll see you at work," she said again. And that, just _that_, put them back on equal footing.

_Breathe_, he thought. That brick on his chest had increased in weight, and the smell of cabbage was nauseating.

-----

A/N: I don't think I've ever used so many parentheses before. Reviews are golden.


	11. Very Close Talking Redux

#84 Sex

-----

Very close talking has become something of a staple. He makes his move every week or so, in a darkened police station, on a sunny corner near her favorite coffee shop, while they're having lunch on the beach. Every time he lets her know it's not the last time (every time is only enough 'for now'), and she's lost all sense of why this is supposedly a 'mistake.'

They're in front of the Psych office on her lunch break, her eyes are closed, his arms are wrapped around her waist, and to anyone else it probably looks like they're kissing, but his lips are millimeters away.

He's whispering to her about a dream he had last night.

"I was on a pogo stick, bouncing through the outback of Australia with a kangaroo named Amos. He was taking me to the magical crystal caves where a ceremony was to be preformed, after which, I would become a kangaroo too."

She laughs quietly, and tilts her chin up, forgetting how close they are for one tiny moment. And a second later everything changes, because when their mouths meet, she forgets why she's been holding him back. And then they're kissing, and it's _really_ kissing and not just their lips touching. He makes a noise in his throat, something between a groan and her name, and his arms tighten around her. She kisses him still, and lets her fingers comb through his hair, and then his tongue is begging permission, and she's granting it, and oh—It's like a dam has broken. Every urge, every thought, every wish she's ever denied bursts through to her skin, and—

She wants him, she wants him, she _wants_ _him_, and can they please go somewhere and do something about that?

He's reading her mind, because he's fumbling for the doorknob. He kicks the door open, and leads her through it, never breaking the touch of their lips.

Then madness ensues.

Her suit jacket finds the floor, and her hair clip has disappeared. His hands are everywhere: caressing her face, around her elbows, tight at her waist, in her hair, pulling her hips against his. His touch is light, teasing, then clutching, desperate. She wants it all, every aspect; every facet of his personality is in the graze of his fingers, and she wants to feel it all, now, now, now. Shawn mischievous. Shawn fumbling. Shawn giddy. Shawn—

She's against the reception desk, trying to catalogue and memorize _him_, and then he's breaking away from her.

"No, no, no. Not here. Not like this." His eyes are dark, and his breath comes as fast as hers, and he must be crazy.

"Huh?" she says, hating how cool the air feels now that he's not pressed against her. And what's his _deal_ anyway?

"I had plans. Romantic ones. You were going to swoon."

"And yet, here I am, swooning."

"I know, but—" he's using that almost-whining voice. It makes her lips curve. "There were going to be candles, and witty banter."

Who needs candles? She's not some blushing virgin, and they've got the second all the time. "Okay… but…" She fists her hands in his shirt. "I like kissing you. I _really_ like kissing you."

His eyes have just gone from hazel to black, and then his hand is around the nape of her neck, and he's kissing her hard.

"You're going to make me go through the rest of the day like this?" she says, when his lips trail down to her collarbone. Hot and _waiting_.

"You?" he says with a scoff, and his tongue tastes her skin. "What about me? Do you know how painful this is?"

"No," she breathes, and pulls him back for another kiss.

"Oh, I get it," he says, and raises his eyebrows at her. "You're trying to get me to change my mind. Touché, Detective O'Hara."

The corner of her lip quirks, and she thinks about saying something about playing dirty, but that would line him up for a comeback.

His hands are on her back, under her shirt, making trails of fire and goosebumps appear on her skin.

"Can't we do romantic another time?" she begs.

"You mean you're going to give me a second shot at this?"

She meets his eyes, and says, "Yes," with feeling.

"Oh, good. Because—" and she cuts him off with a kiss.

-----


End file.
